


You're All I Ever Wanted (I Think I'll Regret This)

by Cannebady



Series: All That You Are to Me [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, As it turns out Crowley and Aziraphale are both pine trees, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale has self-esteem issues, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Coming Untouched, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Insecurity, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22435564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannebady/pseuds/Cannebady
Summary: Aziraphale can't hide his feelings anymore. Thinking it impossible for Crowley to feel the same, he devises a (very poorly thought out) plan to confess his feelings and take some time away from his demonic counterpart to get over him. Crowley has other plans.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: All That You Are to Me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622269
Comments: 52
Kudos: 718
Collections: Hot Omens, Top Aziraphale Recs





	You're All I Ever Wanted (I Think I'll Regret This)

**Author's Note:**

> The usual apologies for my atrocious tense inconsistency and reticence to actually edit things. Mostly, I write them, hem and haw about posting, and then decide to post it in a fit of unearned bravado.
> 
> Regardless, I hope you enjoy. Title is from Mitski's "Your Best American Girl".

It starts with an angel fretting in a bookshop in Soho. 

That alone isn’t notable considering that, for the better part of the last 200 years, there’s been an angel fretting in a bookshop in Soho consistently.

As a lot, angels aren’t generally very prone to fretting. Something about the faith in the Great Plan and tangible connection with the Almighty tends to soothe even the worst of anxieties and breeds a general lack of interest in delving deeper in to the hows and whys of existence. However, when one has rather dramatically tendered their resignation from traditional Angelship (Angeling? Angelsmithing? Humans never did come up with a word to tie up Aziraphale’s job with a neat little bow) due to irreconcilable philosophical differences, that blind faith just doesn’t quite pass muster.

Despite the winding, verbose, rambling introduction, the point remains that at any given time, and for any given reason, if one were to enter A.Z. Fell and Co. in London, Soho they’d likely find a man-shaped being doing some kind of anxious dance featuring a lovely furrowed brow and some fancy hand-wringing. 

What’s unique about _this_ day, and _this_ angel, and _this_ fretting (and this _very_ high quality hand-wringing), is the shards of thought-based shrapnel currently pinging around inside the angel’s head. Quite for the first time in his very long life, the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, has made a decision to act upon his newly harnessed free will.

This action, for those uninformed of Aziraphale’s inner thoughts, is actually _telling_ a particular demon that he’s fallen quite irrevocably in love with him.

After their respective rousing, one-night-only performances in Heaven and Hell, both miraculously walking out without a scratch or a supervisor to speak of, Aziraphale had thought that he could remain content continuing to platonically share space with the demon. Over their years at the Dowling's and right up to the Not Quite Apocalypse, spending time together had become somewhat routine; a routine in which Aziraphale would very much like to continue to participate. 

The complicating factor here, happens to be _feelings_. Quite a human experience at their root, but when you've spent six millennia living as one, the angel could hardly be faulted with picking up some bad habits. This particular quirk of the human condition, that he’d unintentionally adopted, became known to him when Crowley had stood next to him in St. James Park and asked for holy water. 

His heart, not necessary for pumping actual blood but a reassuringly steady presence in his chest, had stopped beating completely at the thought of being stuck on Earth alone. Quickly, the surprise gave way to righteous rage at Crowley for being so bold as to ask his best fr-, his ene-, his _whatever_ for a _suicide pill_. Then, as if to further complicate an already fraught emotional tether, the angel circled back to the thought that, in the given worst-case scenario, Crowley would just _not be anymore._ That had been more than enough to send the angel careening into a strop of a magnitude heretofore unseen by angel, demon, human, or duck kind. 

Feelings, as they are, take some getting used to. _Love_ , specifically the giving and receiving thereof, takes _quite a bit_ of getting used to (even for beings made of the stuff). So Aziraphale, not practiced in realizing, processing, or voicing his feelings, lashed out and stomped off instead.

In years to come, when he stopped by Crowley's flat to care for things during his deep sleep, Aziraphale would wonder what would've happened if he'd just said- 

If he'd just said something else. _Anything else_ , really.

Back in the present, it turns out that the new status quo involves them spending almost all of their free time together. And isn't that just a doddle!

He gets to see Crowley in all of his best, and worst, and neutral states. He gets to watch him be unwittingly _kind_ (as if it's his true nature, which Aziraphale steadfastly believes it is), gets to lay a tattered tartan blanket over him when he kips on Aziraphale's old sofa, gets to see him glue quarters to the ground and cause a ruckus at Tesco over the origins of produce. He gets to see him _real_ and _vulnerable_. His flashy, cocksure demon rendered soft and content in the aftermath of the End that Didn’t Come. 

And that's making keeping his thoughts out of the proverbial gutter and his hands off of the demon _exceedingly_ difficult. Aziraphale’s impulses, traditionally locked into the deepest recesses of his chest _thank you very much_ , have begun to run amok quite without his conscious input.

It started at The Ritz, because of course it did. They’d dined together thousands of times throughout their very long lives on Earth, but the knowledge that their lives were well and truly _theirs_ for the first time was heady, and it made them impulsive.

When the dessert trolley had been brought by, boasting a selection of scrumptious looking puddings and mousses, Crowley had enthusiastically ordered one of everything so that Aziraphale didn’t have to choose. He’d then gone right ahead and, in a fit of what Aziraphale can only identify is complete insanity, _spoon fed_ the initial tastes to Aziraphale with a satisfied smirk on his face as if it wasn't testing the very boundaries of the angel's self-control. Aziraphale, shocked to his angelic core, had been able to do nothing more than take the proffered bites from his (extremely charming, irritatingly handsome) companion and pray to a God he wasn’t sure was listening for the strength to abstain.

In the end, Aziraphale had been too enraptured to call an audible or say _anything at all_ to question when exactly Crowley had lost his mind. The fact that it was a portion of a well-worn fantasy of Aziraphale's didn't hurt either. 

While Crowley was likely just giddy and riding the high of truly being _free_ , the intimacy of the act had made its' home in Aziraphale’s decorative heart and taken its mantel as the final blow that effectively smashed the remaining walls he’d put in place to a very fine dust.

Since, he’s had quite some trouble with the demon’s, well, everything really.

That’s not to say that _Crowley_ is a problem; at least not with the negative implications a problem usually connotes. Aziraphale adores him and is so grateful to spend their time together. It’s just that Aziraphale is used to having the convenient excuse of _“Well, I’d rather him not be dead”,_ to stop himself from doing things like brushing his hand through copper hair, or zoning out watching Crowley’s lips move (or, Heaven forbid, his _hips_ ), or placing a kiss on a sleep-smooth forehead when the demon is resting (and snoring slightly, which Aziraphale is trying and failing not to find endearing). 

With the threat of intervention from Heaven and Hell summarily put to rest, Aziraphale’s hedonistic tendencies, categorical knowledge of erotic literature, and deeply repressed desire to truly _have_ his demon in all possible ways, have combined to create an untamable fixation which is unsustainable, if he intends not to ruin the most important relationship in his life.

His initial plan had been to keep it controlled and keep it contained, which he’d been confident in the success of considering he had centuries of experience enacting it. They’d _just_ gotten each other back, just found themselves able to share in all aspects of each other’s lives in a real way that they’d never had before; and it wouldn’t do to go about throwing a wrench in the works on the whims of a fantasy. Especially one with such little chance of reciprocation.

But as time continued to pass and they spent more time in each other’s orbits, Aziraphale’s come to the decision that he must face the music (and it’s not going to be anything quite as nice as Schubert, if you ask him). For all his flights of fancy, Aziraphale is a ruthless pragmatist. He’s under no illusion that he’s going to inform Crowley of his feelings and have the demon swoon into his arms like a Victorian heroine (Aziraphale’s not that lucky, and this isn’t one of the romance novels he’ll never admit to owning).

He knows that Crowley has had human lovers and, while they’ve come in all shapes and sizes and designations, they’ve had _one_ thing in common in respect to their physical attractiveness. Crowley’s style is modern, sleek, and eye-catching, and his partners have not diverted from that paradigm. Regardless of the era or the region, if Crowley took a partner, they matched him in aesthetic. 

Aziraphale isn’t sure how Hell distributes corporations to demons, but if it’s anything like Heaven, it’s quite a bit like shopping in a department store with a final sale policy; you have a limited number of options, in a limited number of sizes and styles, and once you’ve tried it on for several minutes, a bored looking shopkeeper is fussing you out the door without so much as a by your leave and a shout of “Remember, no returns!”

That is to say that, while Aziraphale chose his corporation for the purposes of comfort and blending in with humans, Crowley had chosen his with temptation in mind. And he’d chosen _well_.

Everything about Crowley is designed to tempt; to encourage one to draw close when his smirk takes on a come-hither ilk, angle your head to better hear the low rumble of his voice ripple across skin and make itself known in a chest, to smell the smoky, sweetness of him that begs a taste, to desire to run fingertips over a sharp jawline into soft, wild waves. Crowley's body moves in rhythm with the world around him while standing out as a movement all its own, always allowing him to look effortlessly casual and connected to the world he interacts with (regardless of the choppy waters beneath), and humans have not been immune to his wiles (and neither have angels, as it so happens). 

But for all of Crowley's exploits, he's _never_ acted that way towards Aziraphale. Sure, there were times when they’d imbibed quite a lot and there were lingering touches or looks. Sure, there was that whole temporary insanity-fueled dessert-feeding incident, but in times of sobriety (and more recently sobriety and contentment), Crowley has never taken the chance to make a move. While sometimes anxious and lightly prone to histrionics, Crowley is decisive. If he’d wanted Aziraphale, he would’ve made it known by this point, which is why Aziraphale has finally given up the ghost on his affections being returned in kind.

He knows the demon loves him. He’s an angel and can sense love, but it's clearly not in the _same_ way that Aziraphale loves him (romantically, hopelessly) and the angel would prefer the chance to rationally explain his feelings and plan to rid himself of them before his traitorous body does it for him. If he controls the narrative, as it were, there's a chance he'll be able to mend the break to his relationship with Crowley, ultimately preserving their relationship in the long run (and eternity, as it happens, is quite long indeed).

If not, he fears that he'll impulsively do something like yell from the rooftops that he's in love with his best friend, or yank a lovely glass of wine from a lovely, long-fingered hand for the opportunity to taste it from the demon’s lips, or collapse to his knees in front of Crowley and actually _beg_ to get his mouth on him. None of those options will do. The only thing for it is to explain his stance, apologize for his inconvenient feelings, and ask for a leave of absence, of a kind, to get himself in order.

He just needs a little space. Not much (perhaps a decade? No longer than a few years, surely), but long enough that the aching, _yearning_ core of him isn't constantly reaching out to his demonic counterpart. They've gone centuries without seeing each other in the past and Crowley is a logical demon. Surely, he'll understand. Surely, he'll nod solemnly at Aziraphale while giving him a regrettable ( _heart-wrenching_ ) version of _"Sorry Angel, it's not you, it's me."_ He’s not so naïve to think that he can talk himself out of being in love with Crowley. He hasn’t been able to do it in the 200-some years he’s been aware of his feelings and the stakes were quite literally life or death. All he needs is enough time for it to become background noise, controllable, and not something that aims to claw its way from his heart to his tongue every time the demon is near.

Aziraphale can't be the first being that Crowley's had to turn away because they’d developed inconvenient feelings for him and, despite his assurances to the contrary, Crowley is _kind_. He wouldn't make Aziraphale feel badly and would likely take the responsibility on himself. So Aziraphale has to be strong, and decisive, and make it clear to Crowley that this is _his_ problem to deal with, not Crowley's, and gently bow out to save the demon the heartache of watching his friend uselessly pine for him. After all Crowley’s done for him, it really is the very least he could do.

Despite being disappointed frequently in his very long life (by the callous nature of some humans, by the apathy of his angelic brethren, by his own penchant to misplace his trust), Aziraphale tends to also hold onto some degree of blind optimism. Although he _knows_ that Crowley doesn't feel that way, and he _knows_ that hoping for something else is futile, there's still a traitorous part of his heart, the part that reads romance novels and gets teary eyed watching proposal videos on YouTube (something else Crowley turned him onto when he finally gave into learning what the whole Internet thing was about), that thinks, " _But wouldn't it be nice if he loved me too"_ , but he shuts it down quickly. He’s spent quite enough of his existence bolstering himself on baseless beliefs, and it’s time to live in the reality he helped to preserve.

Aziraphale reminds himself that he was once a warrior held in high regard and steels himself. He may have gone a bit native and a bit soft in his time on Earth, but he didn't earn his rank for nothing. He can do this. He _must_ do this.

With one last moment of indulgence to think of what has been, and what he desperately wishes _was_ , he bundles himself in his coat, leaves the shop, and heads to Mayfair to set into action the steps to break his own heart.

\---

When he disembarks from the bus about a block from Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale takes the time to walk slowly. A part of him wants to appreciate the last few moments when things are fine. They worked remarkably hard for _fine_ , and _good_ , and the best kind of mundane. Knowing that he’s about to create a rift in their relationship, he feels properly guilty for the first time since the Tadfield Air Base (“ _Do something, or I’ll never talk to you again_ ” echoes in his mind). He knows that he’s about to bring fresh conflict into Crowley’s new world and he wishes ardently that there was another way. That he had better control over his feelings; that he hadn’t allowed himself to fall so deeply in love with someone so dear and so unattainable.

These are also the last moments he has before he’ll go quite some time without seeing Crowley. The last time he saw him, just a few days before, they were drinking and laughing in the back room of his shop, and the uncomplicatedly _happy_ look on Crowley’s face is something he’ll fight to keep fresh in his memory until the next End Times. He also knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’ll remember what it looks like when Crowley rejects him with the same clarity, and that he’ll never be able to remember one without the other once the latter comes to pass. Call him selfish, but he wants to appreciate the last few minutes of remembering him content and unburdened before he changes things irreparably.

However, he can only dither so long and before he knows it (and before he’s prepared, if he’s honest), he finds himself staring down the sleek door to Crowley’s penthouse. He runs his hand along the snake-like door knocker and allows himself an indulgent smile; how typical of Crowley to have made this small aesthetic change. He does truly love him, so very, very much.

With a last bracing breath, and a reminder that he’s faced down scarier things (although his heart hadn’t pounded this hard when _Satan himself_ had risen from the tarmac), he knocks on the door. He hears a shuffle followed by a muffled curse coming from inside before the door opens a crack, then wide, revealing a smiling, surprised Crowley. This makes sense, of course, considering that Crowley hadn’t expected to see Aziraphale until later that evening, and they had planned to meet at a new restaurant near the bookshop and not at Crowley’s place.

What throws Aziraphale for a loop is how _casual_ Crowley is now. Gone are his sunglasses, fitted trousers, fashionable blazer, and styled hair; his _armor._ Instead, the demon stands before him in the softest looking pair of black joggers, an equally soft-looking and oversized dark grey t-shirt, and a tattered tartan blanket (one that Aziraphale is sure went missing from the back room of the bookshop quite some time ago) draped inelegantly about his shoulders like a comfortable yet shabby cape. In 6,000 years, and numerous drunken evenings together, Aziraphale has never seen Crowley so unapologetically soft and contented. If possible, he simultaneously falls even deeper in love and deeper into his own guilt for planning to upset his demon's calm waters. This is going to be _impossible_. He uses every atom of his angelic ability to save this version of Crowley into his memory, to burn the image into his mind as proof that it once existed before his ridiculous and continuous failing as an ethereal being compelled him to shatter it into oblivion. He’ll need a reminder of Crowley's beautiful contentedness in the coming days.

“Angel!”, Crowley starts, clearly happy to see him. Another pang of guilt heaps itself onto the existing pile. “What a nice surprise, come in.”

“Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale stutters, trying to keep his voice light. Normal. He needs to lead into this correctly.

“To what do I owe the honor?” the demon says, flourishing his hand for dramatic effect. He shuffles into the small kitchenette, “Can I get you something? Wine, although it’s a bit early isn’t it? Not that it matters. Tea? I think I have some of those biscuits you like.” He’s rambling, opening random cabinets, and Aziraphale feels frozen again. Compelled to commit all of this to memory before he loses it entirely.

“I’m fine, thank you. No need to fuss.” Aziraphale mumbles through trembling lips. A statement which pulls a troubled look from the demon. It’s not like the angel to refuse libations or nibbles.

Before Crowley can voice the response Aziraphale can see hovering on his tongue, Aziraphale moves into the sitting room, eying the couch he knew wasn’t there just a few weeks ago. How quickly one can become comfortable when they aren’t being watched.

“I was hoping to speak with you, about, er-, well”, he trails off. His eye is drawn to the strip of collar bone visible when Crowley’s shirt shifts off his shoulder.

“About what?” Crowley asks. His face is shifting to concern. Aziraphale is clearly doing a poor job at hiding his discontent. His posture gives him away, if nothing else. Usually prim and proper, Aziraphale is sitting slumped forward on the sofa, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, eyes to the floor.

“I can’t-”, he starts again. Takes a bracing breath. “I can’t do this anymore, Crowley. I’m so sorry.” He runs his hands down his face and lets out a sound that’s half frustrated sob and half relief at having finally started. “It’s not fair to you,” he continues, “for me to keep you so close without you knowing the nature of my feelings.”

When he looks up to assess the demon’s response, he realizes that the look of concern is shifting through complicated series of shock and disbelief, which encourages him to rip the proverbial band-aid off and just get this over with so he can fall apart in peace.

“It’s been some time since I’ve known, but it was always easier not to think of when Gabriel was a stop away, when I had an ineffable purpose, and when I was focused on averting Armageddon. But since then, my dear, every day I’ve spent with you has been wonderful. _You’re wonderful,”_ he sounds utterly besotted, which is reasonable considering he is, “and I’ve fallen very much, completely, er-, in love you with, my dear, as it happens.”

There, he’s said it. It’s out in the open. Now is the easier part; to explain and take his leave.

“It’s so very human, I know. Perhaps I’ve been down here too long-, but please Crowley, understand that I don’t expect anything of you. I know you don’t feel the same, and I’ve never expected anything from you in return, don’t you think for a moment that I do. But I’ve found the feeling to be rather inescapable, despite the best of my efforts to avoid it, and I felt it prudent to let you know so that I can take the space needed to control my feelings before-, well, before I do something that’ll hurt you.” It’s said in a rush, without looking at Crowley at all. He _can’t_ look at Crowley he finds. He doesn’t want that vision in his head forever. He’d like to remember the good; he is an angel after all.

Without looking up, he closes his eyes to blink back the tears threatening to make an appearance (Crowley doesn’t need to deal with him _crying_ after all of that) and stands, turning towards the door. Crowley hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, and Aziraphale can see him standing statue-still in his periphery.

“I promise I’ll get in touch when I’m feeling, er-, more controlled.” He takes another step and, quieter yet, barely audible but enough for demonic ears to catch, “I’m so sorry, my dear. I wish I didn’t have to do this.”

His whole body is trembling, and his knees are weakening, threatening to give out. Instead of risking _actually collapsing_ in Crowley’s foyer, he harnesses a bulk of celestial power and wills himself somewhere quiet and serene. He hates himself _deeply_ for ending up on a very specific bench in St. James’ Park. He stays there for some time, watching the ducks swim around one another, feeling the light breeze cool the tear tracks on his cheeks. Looking across the pond from where he was staring at the ducks and taking a moment more to truly feel a depth of regret for himself, he gets up and embarks on the short walk to his shop. Some cocoa and his first edition Wilde won’t fix his battered heart, but it might help just a bit.

\---

On the way back, he realizes he’s outside of an off-license that he and Crowley had frequented in the past when their jaunts to the park had turned into evenings of excessive alcohol intake. Feeling particularly sorry for himself, he decides to stop in and treat himself to something special for the evening. He’ll need to move past this indulgent self-pity at some point; will need to stop thinking about the things that remind him of Crowley (or at least stop thinking of things in terms of their relationship to Crowley), but tonight? Tonight, he can drink and numb himself to all of his favorite memories before he undertakes the gargantuan task of burying his feelings too deep for recovery.

Bypassing the vintage reds (too many demon-related memories to his favorite vintages), Aziraphale opts for a high-end scotch, and, after a moment of deliberation, a decent bottle of gin because he may be an angel but he’s functionally English and there’s nothing better than a gin-soaked binge to brine a broken heart.

When he arrives back at the shop, he wastes no time in beginning drinking. The first glass goes down remarkably quickly. He thinks of Crowley’s smile; the first tentative one on the wall of Eden, the surprised smile he’d shocked out of Crowley in Rome, his snarky grin outside of the former hospital in Tadfield, the hundred content smiles while reclined on Aziraphale’s back room sofa, his _incandescent_ smile just a couple of hours prior.

The second glass is paired with thoughts of Crowley’s eyes. He remembers how striking the ichor hue was when he first saw them. He remembers how unafraid he was, even then. He remembers the first, niggling pang of regret at seeing them covered. He remembers his heart racing when he saw them the night that Adam was born.

The third through fifth glasses are accompanied by thoughts of Crowley’s hands. The demon was always in motion, always gesturing, twisting and twining, and Aziraphale has been staring at his hands for millennia. The graceful, long-fingered arch of them when reaching for or pouring wine, the way he used them to protect and soothe children during, and after, the flood, his gardener-hands growing life from soil. He thinks about how many times he's wanted to take one of those hands in his own, about the brief period where he _did_ on the bus ride home from Tadfield, about the empty, _aching_ loss after they were dropped off, about how many times his mind hand wandered, considering how those hands would feel cradling his face, in his hair, _on him_.

After the fifth glass, he stops pouring and starts drinking directly from the bottle. Things go a little fuzzy at that point, because it’s quite a bit harder to portion things out. As his mind grows foggier, his thoughts allow themselves to take a turn for the racy, and he thinks about Crowley’s hips. He wonders what Crowley keeps between his legs nowadays. He’s known, at different points throughout history, what Crowley kept; the lines of his clothing and his movements tended to give him away. Then he wonders what it’d feel like to have Crowley _inside of him_ , and after careful consideration, with a lightning strike to his groin, what it’d be like to _be inside of Crowley._ He thinks about Crowley’s lips, and how desperately he wants to find out what it’s like to kiss him. Would Crowley be demure? Allow Aziraphale to take the lead and taste the softness of his lips? Would he let him drink from the warm well of him, explore the depths of that beloved mouth at his leisure? Or would he kiss like a demon unhinged? Raw, and passionate, and devouring. Or would he kiss like he needed the air from Aziraphale’s lungs to breathe; would he kiss the way that Aziraphale dreams of kissing him too, like it’s inevitable and incredible and _necessary._

He’d be unsurprised to find that he’d been hard for the better portion of the last couple of hours, but inebriation and this pitious trip down memory lane have a way of drowning out the physical body, so he does nothing about it. He moves to his flat above the shop around hour seven, precariously dangling a half-drunk bottle of gin in one hand and using the other to drag along the wall to keep him upright. He collapses on his often-forgotten bed and stares listlessly out of the small window. With a snap of his fingers he spares himself a few comforts and finds himself in a soft cotton night shirt, allowing his wings to make an appearance on this plane. Contrary to popular belief, he has slept on and off throughout the years. He usually felt that it was in direct opposition to his role as a service-driven angel, but every so often he allowed himself a little sloth. He hears the gin bottle collide with the carpet and spares a moment to think about sobering up. He doesn’t. Call it what you will (and what you'd call it would be self-destructive), but there’s a part of him that wants the crushing hangover. Part of him wants his corporation to feel as awful as his heart. It’s a maudlin and depressing thought, but, what else does one do when they’ve put to bed the idea of reciprocated love? He drifts off to thoughts of warm hands and warmer eyes, and the fact that he may never be rid of this hollowed out feeling.

\---

Waking up is less like a slow dawning and more like being thrown head first into a brick wall with no chance to brace yourself, if this experience is anything to go by. He knows he’s been asleep for at least a day, two at most, by the stiffness in his arms and legs, but the pounding in his head is the thing at the forefront of his mind. While he takes a moment to consider actually experiencing the hangover (and old rule of his about falling asleep before sobering up), he quickly remembers why it was that he got so intoxicated and spares himself the additional pain. Dealing with his feelings will be pain enough. At least his nap ameliorated his more destructive thoughts from the Day Which Will Not be Named.

Once seated on the bed with his feet on the floor, he tries to gage how long he was out. Based on the dried gin on the carpet, the fact that his headache is still present, and the general discomfort in his corporation, he’s guessing it's more likely somewhere around 24 hours.

He rises, moves to his kitchen and brews a cup of strong tea before taking in his surroundings. Something is off, but his brain is too fuzzy to piece it together quickly. On his small dining table is a bag from the bakery a block or two from The Ritz that he likes so much, but he can’t remember having stopped there recently, and forgetting about baked goods isn’t really in his repertoire.

Aziraphale approaches the table as if the bag might attack, then catches the corner of a piece of paper beneath the bag. His heart plummets into his stomach when he lifts the back and sees the paper beneath.

In the hallmark scratchy, barely legible handwriting is a note from none other than Crowley.

“We need to talk. Please. – C”

Aziraphale isn’t sure what to make of the note, or the dark chocolate and orange tarte (his favorite) that is somehow at the perfectly warmed temperature despite sitting on his table for who knows how long. He hadn’t planned to see Crowley before his feelings had dulled and he hadn’t prepared for a confrontation. In his haste yesterday, though, he realizes that he’d never let Crowley respond. This was largely due to panic, resignation, and the thinnest strand of self-preservation possible, but he realizes now that it was unfair. Crowley was allowed to feel things about this, and probably felt the need to soothe his friend. He feels a sad pang of love for the strange, kind creature that held his heart.

Tea brewed and tarte in hand, he moves downstairs to the back room to think. A few hours of concentration will allow him the ability to formulate a response to what Crowley may say, as well as build up somewhat of an armor for pulling back the newly formed scab of his absence. What he doesn’t prepare himself for at all, is to find the object of his turmoil fast asleep, scowl in place, on his sofa.

He must really be out of it if he didn’t sense Crowley’s presence. While startled, he also realizes that the demon is fast asleep, so he has a little time to cope.

He seats himself in his armchair, across from the sofa, and indulges in running his eyes over the much-adored form. He aches to smooth the crease from Crowley’s brow, to cover him in a blanket and make him comfortable, to lay down beside him and hold him close, warm him and feel his body along his own. He can’t do any of those things, knowing that they wouldn’t be invited now that his feelings are out in the open. On the verge of tears again, he misses the telltale signs of waking and, once his eyes move up from the floor by Crowley’s feet, he’s met with a set of (gorgeous, _unparalleled)_ wide yellow eyes.

“Crowley, apologies my dear, I wasn’t sure how long you’d be asleep for. I thought I had more time.” For what, he isn’t going to elaborate, but Crowley is smart and can fill in the blanks.

What’s more unnerving than the demon staring at him (nearly through him, it feels), is that he’s saying precisely nothing. He’s just looking, like he’s seen something new and has no idea how to process it. Aziraphale is unsure why _Crowley_ is the one feeling that way, but he’s done quite a bit of ignoring Crowley’s responses in the last few days and decides to keep his thoughts to himself.

After several minutes of mute staring, Aziraphale can’t take the silence anymore. “I’m sorry, my dear. Oh, should I not call you that? I know that humans use it as a term of endearment. I didn’t think, apologies again.” He clears his throat just to do something other than ramble, and then starts again. “I am sorry, both for what I told you and for leaving so abruptly. It was horribly selfish of me not to hear out your response. I was just feeling sorry for myself, I suppose. I wasn’t thinking clearly.” He finishes lamely. For someone who’s read nearly every written book, he feels he should be better with words.

“You-”, the demon starts. His voice is rough, both from disuse and emotion. “ _You love me?”_ Ah, getting right to the point then.

“I’m terribly sorry for it.” He repeats for the hundredth time. But he’ll let Crowley work through it. He owes him this at least.

“You’re _sorry?_ ” Crowley nearly yells. Aziraphale is taken aback. In all of the ways he thought this would go, Crowley being angry wasn’t one of them. “You’re sorry for loving me?” he finishes tersely.

“I am. I’m so very sorry.” The angel nearly sobs it out. This is _worse_. So much worse. He’d been prepared for an easy letdown. He’d been prepared for Crowley to be regretful, disappointed even, but not angry.

“No, Angel. I need to know. I need you to explain to me what’s happening here because, me? I’m lost.” The demon’s standing now and starting to pace in front of the sofa. His voice is beginning to sound frantic and Aziraphale can see that he’s working himself up to an almighty panic attack (Crowley would bluster at the blasphemy if he knew).

In an effort to get Crowley to stop panicking, he just starts talking. “I do. I love you. I’m in love with you. In the general love way and the romantic way, and all the other ways. I want to hold your hand, and I want to dance with you, and I want to make _love_ to you, and I want a life with you. But I know that I’m not what you would want or like, I’ve seen some of your past lovers Crowley, _I know_ , you don’t have to tell me. It’s okay. We’ll be okay. I just need time. Once I get this under control, _we’ll be fine.”_ He says it with conviction he doesn’t feel, because Crowley needs it. He’s gritting his teeth so hard he fears they’ll break.

Crowley looks at him dumbfounded. “You-, you really love me? Properly love me?” it’s said so quietly Aziraphale wonders if, perhaps, he wasn’t meant to hear it.

“Yes”, he says, just as quietly. He brings his hands down from where he had them crossed over his chest. He’s not sure when he stood up.

“And you want me, to be with me, to do uh-, to do things with me?” Crowley’s voice is strained, but there’s a quality to it that Aziraphale can’t place. If he weren’t part way to an almighty sulk, he may have categorized it as disbelief with a hint of softness.

“Yes”, he says again, breaking eye contact and looking at the floor.

“Ngk, _Aziraphale”_ , Crowley grits out. “Please, angel, please look at me. I need you to look at me.”

Blinking back tears and closing his eyes to avoid it for a moment longer he raises his head. He finally opens his eyes and sees for himself the wreck he’s made of his best friend. He’s prepared for the fallout now.

The fallout never comes.

Crowley advances on him, backing him into the nearest shelf, placing his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s head, right above his shoulders.

“You listen here, because I don’t know how you missed it. I’ve said before that you’re too clever to be this stupid but here we are again. I’ve been in love with you for _6,000 bloody years._ I have tried to not be in love with you and found myself even _more_ in love with you for the effort of trying to talk myself out of it. I’ve dreamed about a scenario where you felt the same and _dismissed it entirely as insanity._ And I have been trying, since the world _didn’t fucking end,_ to find a way to tell you that all I want to do is spend the rest of this with you. So, _don’t you dare apologize for loving me_. Not when it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He’s out and out panting, and his eyes are dilated and blazing. Aziraphale has never wanted him more. And now that he’s allowing himself to feel it, really feel it, Crowley’s love is _endless_ and pouring out of him in droves. He really is unforgivably stupid.

Regaining some of his breath, Crowley finishes, “Will you let me love you back?”

That’s it. That’s the final straw. The last bit of temptation that Aziraphale can ignore. He’s flayed open and stunned, and how can he be this _lucky?_ Unfreezing from his pose, he lifts his hands allowing them to run up Crowley’s arms, just realizing that he’s in the same clothing he was when Aziraphale was at his flat. He lets his hands drift to Crowley’s shoulders and then freezes, looks into those beloved eyes again, and allows himself to indulge.

He drags his fingertips up that long, elegant neck and savors the sharp gasp it elicits from such loved lips. His hands find themselves cradling Crowley’s face and his thumb, quite without his input is running itself along a lush bottom lip that he’s spent entire evenings thinking about kissing.

“May I?” he whispers and Crowley, beautiful, brave, _wonderful_ Crowley, groans and closes the distance.

The first touch of lip on lip is electric and soothing all at once. It feels like coming home but lights him up from the inside out just as fast. He whimpers into Crowley’s mouth ( _into_ his mouth,because they’re _kissing, Heaven help him_ ), and angles his head to allow for better access. Crowley loses his last bit of rigidity (above the belt anyway) and collapses against him with his whole body. Every sinuous inch of him pressed so sweetly into Aziraphale, as if he can’t help it anymore, as if he feels the same magnetization Aziraphale does. It’s making his head spin.

“Fuck, I want you. I’ve wanted you for _so long”,_ Crowley groans into his mouth. It’s so much and he still can’t believe he has this. He isn’t convinced that this isn’t a gin-induced fever dream; that is until he feels the very real, very _hard_ , evidence of Crowley’s affection being rhythmically pushed into his stomach.

“Oh _Crowley_ ,” he groans, “Please, I want you too. Let me have you. Even if this just this once.” This earns him a growl from Crowley and a quick pinning of his wandering hands.

“Hear you me,” he says it so low, and so thick that Aziraphale’s cock throbs at the sound alone, “I won’t settle for ‘just this once’. If I have you, I’ll want to have you again, and again, until the world burns out the next time. Do you want that, angel?”

“ _Yes, God, yes.”_ He groans. He doesn’t believe it, but he’ll take what he can get. When Crowley releases his hands to tangle one in his hair, he grabs those _damnable_ hips and pulls them flush with his body, grinding his thigh against Crowley’s cock to earn the first outright moan from the demon. Suddenly, he’s being bodily pulled up the stairs to his flat and back into his small bedroom.

Their lips come together again, their hands wandering, constantly pulling the other closer. It’s not close enough; Aziraphale isn’t sure if it ever will be.

“Can I? Crowley can I get this off?” he mutters, almost frustrated, as he’s trying to pull the demon’s shirt up. He’s blocked by Crowley’s arms inextricably wrapped around his own neck.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course”, Crowley says and with a snap, he’s entirely bare in Aziraphale’s arms. He bites back the urge to scold him for using a frivolous miracle but realizes that there are much more pressing matters at hand. For example, the naked demon in his arms.

“Oh darling, look at you. You’re so lovely. Even lovelier than I’ve ever imagined.” He’s saying it to himself mostly, but the effect on Crowley is instantaneous. He feels his cock twitch against his clothed stomach and the groan Crowley lets out is desperate at best.

“Fuck, angel, please. On the bed. Strip off first, though.” The last bit is like ice water. This is the part he always forgot about when he would fantasize about being with Crowley this way. All was well and good in theory, but as soon as Crowley saw his form things would be over rather quickly.

While not self-conscious normally (not a trait angels usually had at all), he can’t imagine that Crowley will like what he sees sans clothing. Crowley’s former partners had generally been on the slender side and closer to peak physical condition. Aziraphale, while strong and healthy, bares the evidence of gluttony specifically in the roundness of his belly, the thickness of his thighs, and the thin, silvery lines that show their growth.

He’s clearly frozen up for too long, because Crowley’s face swims back into view looking concerned.

“Angel? What’s wrong? Is this too fast?”, he looks like he’d rather take a second dive into boiling sulphur than her the answer, but as usual, he’s putting Aziraphale’s well-being above his own.

“I’m afraid”, he says not sure how to follow up.

“Of?” Crowley responds so softly it makes Aziraphale’s heart ache. Crowley is running soothing hands up and down his flanks and knowing that Crowley is touching the, erm, _softer_ parts of him reconstitutes his apprehension from its frozen state.

“You won’t like what you see”, he murmurs, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor near the empty gin bottle.

“What’ve you got? Old-fashioned knickers? You could have a hive of bees under there and I’d be just as keen honestly.” It’s a feeble joke and it almost makes Aziraphale cry for how sweet and _rare_ this creature before him is.

“I’m just not what you typically go for, my dear. I don’t want you to regret it once you’ve seen me and feel compelled to continue.” He tries to smile but he knows he doesn’t pull it off.

“ _For fucks sake_ ,” Crowley groans, then takes Aziraphale’s hand. “I’m sorry for this, but please stay with me.” He snaps his fingers and Aziraphale is promptly quite nude and very quickly blushing from cheek to sternum.

“Crowley, what?!” he exclaims but finds himself quickly spun and sat on his own bed, swiftly acquiring a lapful of enthusiastic demon.

Crowley groans and presses himself against Aziraphale as closely as he can, allowing the angel to feel how aroused he is.

“Angel, I told you, I want you so badly I don’t know what to do with it. I’ve been ogling your thighs, and arse, and belly for millennia. Don’t keep you from me now, not when I just got you.” And he’s begging. Actually, _begging_ Aziraphale to be with him and touch him and let him touch too and that’s. Well that’s alright then.

“Whatever you want Crowley, my love, yes. Anything.” He buries one hand in hellfire hair, the other arm wrapping around Crowley's lower back, and uses his well-honed angelic strength to stand, still holding the demon, and reverse their positions, lying the demon out beneath him on the mattress and kneeling between his now splayed thighs.

The wanton moan that leaves Crowley’s mouth at the display of strength bleeds liquid fire into Aziraphale’s groin. He can feel his cock leaking a steady stream of precum down the shaft and he spares a moment of embarrassment for how obviously aroused he is. That is until he sees Crowley, splayed out beneath him, biting his lip, cock a long, hard line against his stomach, staring directly at Aziraphale’s body like it’s taking all of his demonic strength not to _devour him whole._

Something about the vulnerability of Crowley’s position douses him with a fresh rush of arousal and spurs him into action.

“I’ve dreamed of you like this, spread out beneath me.” He says. It hasn’t escaped his notice how Crowley responds to praise. Luckily for the demon, Aziraphale has plenty in his arsenal. “I thought of what it would be like to have my mouth all over you, to take you inside me, to be inside you. I don’t even know where to start.” He’s running his hands up Crowley’s thighs, feeling the soft hairs tickle his hands.

“Please, please _please_ Aziraphale, anything. Please just _touch me._ ” The demon’s chest is heaving and he’s reaching for Aziraphale and the angel finally gives in and leans down over the demon to kiss him. Where they’d been sweet or frantic before, this kiss is _deep._ It feels like Crowley is trying to drink him in entirely and, in turn, he’s trying to memorize the taste and feel of Crowley’s tongue in case he never gets this again. In case this really is a fever dream that he’ll wake from, hard and wanting.

He moves to press sucking kisses down Crowley’s throat, stopping to nip at his ears. Crowley’s writhing and voicing a constant stream of filthy moans; the combination promptly driving Aziraphale into a frenzy. Before he knows it, he’s nipping at those damned, distracting collarbones, sucking on a pert nipple until Crowley’s out and out _pulling_ on his hair and pressing his chest against Aziraphale’s mouth. Crowley’s leaking now too; enough that there’s a sizable puddle right below is belly button that’s calling to Aziraphale. Without further ado, he moves to lick up the puddle and Crowley gasps and throws a hand down to squeeze the base of his cock.

“Angel, _Aziraphale_ , please. Another time, but if you don’t fuck me _right now,_ I’ll lose it before you have a chance to.” Hearing those words in Crowley’s wrecked, already fucked-out voice, breath coming quick, pulls a deep growl from Aziraphale; a sound he wouldn’t believe came from him if he hadn’t heard it himself.

“Of course, love, of course.” He groans. He miracles up a bottle of lubricant and wastes no time in coating the fingers of his right hand. Holding Crowley’s legs apart with the other, he lets his hand drift along the leaking shaft, staring right into those hypnotic eyes as he does. He watches Crowley’s eyes go hazy and half-lidded as he strokes his balls, one at a time, before moving behind to finally circle around the tight ring of muscle.

“Fuck,” Crowley moans, hips pressing into Aziraphale and trying to get his finger to breach.

“Patience, my dear. I’ll get you there.” He’s not sure where this confidence is coming from all of a sudden, other than from the stubborn knowledge that he’d do literally anything to make his demon happy.

“Ngk, _mmm_ ”, Crowley moans when Aziraphale finally pushes a finger in. He needs to take a minute to calm his body, because Crowley is so tight and so _hot_ inside that it’s going to do him in any moment, he knows it. With Crowley pushing back on him, trying to take him deeper, Aziraphale adjusts and lets a second finger slip in with the first.

“You feel _divine_ , my dear. And you look even better. How is that possible? Just look at you, so open and aroused. You’re leaking so much; do you always get this wet when someone has their fingers in you?” Talking is helping him focus. The effect that it has on Crowley is _sublime_.

“ _Fucking Hell_ , Aziraphale. No, it’s _never_ been like this before.” The demon's moans are loud enough that Aziraphale would be concerned about his neighbors, if he’d ever given a toss about them to begin with, when he slides a third finger in.

“I can’t wait to be inside you, I want to hear you, Crowley, don’t hold a thing back. I can’t wait to feel you come on my cock.” He groans himself at the last bit. Just the thought of bringing Crowley that kind of pleasure is losing him the battle with his own composure.

“ _Christ, Aziraphale_ ”, Crowley continues after catching his breath, “Where the _fuck_ did you learn to talk like that?”

“You pick up a few things from literature, my dear. And from practice.” Although he had not been as popular as Crowley throughout the years, he had not abstained. To be fair, Crowley was asleep for most of the 19th century and life was quite boring without the love of your life.

“From _oh,_ pr-, practice?” Crowley strings together through groans.

“Well, yes, my dear. You didn’t think you were the only one partaking, did you?” He gives a vicious twist of his fingers, nailing Crowley’s prostate and rendering him howling underneath him. _Perfect_.

“Fuck, fuck, I don’t care. Just _get in me._ ” With a shaky exhale, Aziraphale slowly removes his fingers, pours some additional lube on his hand and slicks himself up. Crowley watches and whines, a high, reedy sound, and brings his eyes up to lock with the angel’s.

“How do you want me?” Aziraphale asks at length.

“Any way I can have you,” Crowley says, low and sincere, “But for this, maybe-” he cuts off and gestures for Aziraphale to lay on his back. The implications make his head swim and he switches places with Crowley, laying in the middle of the bed. It’s only now that he realizes how hard he actually is, how his cock is standing straight up, nearly purple and begging for friction.

“Look at that,” Crowley croons, wrapping his hand around Aziraphale’s cock and then running his hands over his belly and thighs. Aziraphale is, absurdly, nervous that once Crowley touches him, he’ll be repulsed. He needn’t have worried as one touch of a soft thigh draws a groan from the demon. “Someday, not now, but, eventually, I’m going to have to fuck your thighs. Seriously, _fuck_ , angel.” And oddly, Aziraphale believes him. There’s no mistaking the honestly in Crowley’s tone, the unparalleled heat in his eyes, or the thick, unrelenting waves of lust and so much _love _coming off of him in droves.__

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“Yes, of course.” His voice is at least an octave deeper than usual; it almost sounds like someone else’s.

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As if on cue, Crowley straddles him, leans down to place a downright _filthy_ kiss on him, and then, without hesitation, sinks down in one, slow motion until Aziraphale is in him to the hilt. They moan in tandem at the feeling of filling and being filled, and his hands fly to Crowley’s hips to still him because it’s _so much_. And if Crowley moves now, he’ll be done for, no question about it.

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“ _Fuck”_ , he groans, “Crowley, please just a moment. You feel _incredible_ darling, I just need a moment, or this will end rather quickly.”

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Flushed to his chest, Crowley lets out a stuttering moan that goes a bit thin at the end. Like he just _can’t_ , like he’s too overwhelmed to even _moan._ And isn’t _that_ a thing.

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“Angel, please let me move. You’re so _thick_ , fuck, I can feel you everywhere.” It’s rushed out between small groans and Aziraphale can feel the tiny hitches of Crowley’s hips between his hands _and_ on his cock.

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He starts to encourage Crowley's hips into a rolling rhythm, which Crowley takes to immediately, making those same serpentine movements the angel has lusted after a million times. He’ll never be able to watch Crowley saunter off again without getting hard, he’s sure of it.

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“I always wondered what those hips could do,” He muses. “Sometimes, when we’d part, I’d just watch you walk away and _burn_ with the need to touch. Crowley, _ah_ , you have _no idea_ what you do to me.” The words are rushing out without finesse, but he needs Crowley to understand, to _know _, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the indelible mark he's left upon Aziraphale; how wanted he is, has been, and will be until the end of time (and, if recent history is likely to repeat itself, even beyond that).__

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“I might have an idea,” he responds, breathless and needy, “considering what I’m sitting on.” He punctuates the admission with a soft groan and a dirty grind of his hips that has Aziraphale bucking up into and bodily pulling Crowley down onto him. “FUCK, fuckfuckfuck, please angel, again, just like that. _Please.”_ Crowley begs and, really, what can the angel to do but oblige?

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While he hasn't exactly been passive, Aziraphale has been allowing a more sedate pace; wanting Crowley to feel nothing but loved and cherished (because he is _so _loved, and _so _cherished), but the sound of Crowley's voice, nearly unrecognizable with pleasure, encourages the angel to start giving as good as he gets, bucking his hips up into Crowley and moving him on his cock while the demon wails and writhes, trying to grind down harder and harder, to get him that much deeper.____

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Watching his demon in the throws of passion is pushing him rapidly to the edge. The heat between his legs is sparking up his spine and hurtling him towards what promises to be a _very _pleasurable end, but he doesn't want to fall over the edge alone. He goes to stroke Crowley’s cock, feeling the fluttering of his inner walls and the strain in his body increasing, but, surprisingly, Crowley stops him. He's concerned for a moment that he missed a signal and is about to ask when Crowley interrupts.__

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“Don’t, s'good angel, _so good _, please, let me come like this.” He’s quite literally slurring and Aziraphale feels a bit of pride creep in. _He’s_ done this to his demon. Then he lets Crowley’s words sink in and he’s even closer to the razor’s edge in an instant.__

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“You can come like this? _Oh_ , you rarest of treasures. Crowley, please. Please come on me, I want to feel you.” He groans and sits up gathering Crowley to him and pulling him down onto his cock, grinding right where he knows that sweet spot is.

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Crowley almost _screams _as he comes, painting Aziraphale’s stomach and chest (another lick of pride sweeps through him at how hard his demon had to have come to get that kind of, ahem, _distance _) as he presses his forehead to Aziraphale’s shoulder. It takes the angel a moment to realize that Crowley’s saying something, mouthing it into the sweatslick skin of his neck. He takes a beat to confirm, but he finally hears, and feels, the string of “I love you, fuck I love you so much angel.” And that’s it, that's all it takes in the end. He thrusts up into the demon once more and comes deep in him with a sob that’s as much pleasure as it is relief.____

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“I love you too, Crowley. So much. I’ve loved you in my heart and in my mind for so long.” He whispers it right into Crowley’s ear, dragging his hand through sweat-dampened locks.

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There’s a small, hitching sob from the demon and a tightening of the arms around him. He tightens his own in kind and they stay locked together for several more moments before he carefully slides out of Crowley, snaps his fingers to take care of the mess, and lays them both down under his ridiculously soft duvet.

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Crowley, serpent that he is, clings bodily to Aziraphale almost immediately and, as he’s drifting off to a well-earned slumber, murmurs almost too quiet to hear, “Please be here when I wake up.”

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Aziraphale’s heart clenches. He really was very unfair to his demon. “Of course, love, I’ll be here.”

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